


Just A Little Run of Bad Luck

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:45:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: They had had a week-long run of bad luck.  Not SERIOUSLY bad, no.  It could have been worse.   They hadn't had to dispose of any inconvenient bodies (not that such a thing usually happened, not here in England anyway - just sayin!); no one had ended up badly hurt, or dead or in jail.  Well, not in jail for very long, anyway.  But none of them would have called the past week GOOD, that's for sure.  It was just fortunate they'd not been called away for a mission.  With the luck they'd been having, it just would NOT have been pretty.





	Just A Little Run of Bad Luck

Garrison had left the Mansion in a fairly good frame of mind. No, he didn't relish the idea of this meeting. He was getting to where he really hated meetings, in fact. But at least this was one with some legitimate purpose, one he and the other team leaders agreed was important. He and the guys had come back from an area not many had gone to before, one with unexpected complications with local customs and unusual terrain to deal with, and sharing what they'd learned with the other team leaders just made sense. Last time, Ainsley had briefed them on that uncomfortable experience his team had run into with that violent cult in Algiers; now it was Garrison's turn to talk about that remote part of the Carpathians and all the lovely surprises that place could offer an unwary team.

The day took a downturn before he even got there, as did Garrison's mood, as he'd come back from that quick stop at the pharmacy, stood in the rain looking down at his front tire, his very FLAT front tire. Yes, there had been a spare, and a jack and tire iron, so it hadn't delayed him too much. Of course, he'd gotten soaked in that sudden downpour, and there had also been grease and dirt, none of which had gone well with the sharply pressed uniform he'd worn to present that briefing to the other team leaders and their Handlers and a couple of higher-ups. He took all that in stride, as much as he could anyway. 

He'd gotten to the meeting, ruefully laughed off the evidence of his morning, opened his briefcase and got to business. He didn't even waste any time being frustrated at finding the last two pages of his notes were somehow missing; was only grateful for his keen memory that allowed him to carry on as if nothing was wrong. 

Having Major Hammond in the room, now he could have done without that. The officer smoked, heavily, and some of the worst smelling cigars Garrison had ever encountered. Even after Hammond had left, Garrison found his throat clogged and his eyes running. He'd left the room thinking at least the outside air would help clear his head.

As it turned out, he had ample opportunity to sample the outside air, since the OTHER front tire was now resting flat on the ground. He sighed heavily, knowing he had already used the spare. "This is just not my day."

In retrospect, it hadn't been his week, his or the rest of the team's either. 

 

Casino had been making a pot of coffee, nothing unusual for him. He made the coffee (or what passed for coffee) a lot of the time, if only to keep Garrison from making that attempt. For a smart, talented man, the officer could turn the simple job of fitting the pieces of the coffee pot together, filling it, and getting it started on its intended purpose, into a marathon of mishaps. And the results? Casino shuddered even thinking about what came pouring out of that poor mismanaged and abused pot when Garrison was in charge. 

Casino, on the other hand, could get the job done with his eyes closed. Yet it was Casino who now managed to somehow get that dish towel too close to the hot burner and send it up in flames. In his rush to get it into the sink and run water over it, he managed to tip over the big basket of walnuts on the counter that Chief and Goniff had picked up in the woods. Some ended up in the sink, some on the counter, but most on the floor. Well, he couldn't worry about that at the moment, not til he got the fire put out. Then, when he moved away from the smoking, stinking mess in the sink to reach for the coffee pot again, he'd stepped on the hard nuts and went slip-sliding across the floor, landing flat on his back, water and the various pieces of the coffee pot strewn around him.

His language when Goniff stuck his head in the door, looked at him with a puzzled frown, politely ignoring Casino's unusual position on the floor, and asked what the Englishman had thought was just a simple little question, "ei, Casino, coffee ready yet?" was loud and mostly unprintable, and left Goniff in a pout for the rest of the morning. 

"Ask a simple question and 'e tears my 'ead off! Rude, that's w'at THAT is, if you ask me!"

 

Goniff had been the first to stumble over the stray cat that appeared out of nowhere. Literally, stumble over the cat. Both came away relatively unscathed, though Goniff had been both winded from hitting the floor belly-down, and a little wide-eyed from having that snarling, hissing, yellow-eyed creature nose to nose with him when he'd lifted his head to figure out what the heck had happened. 

"Don't mind cats, not as a rule, but thought that one was gonna bite my nose off!" 

No one paid much attention, especially since no one else had seen the episode nor had even caught a glimpse of a cat around the place. 

"Just fallin over yer own feet like usual, more likely," Casino gave as his considered opinion, getting an indignant sniff from the pickpocket.

Garrison had taken the next fall, when the black cat dashed between his feet in a mad chase after something only it seemed to see. Picking himself up off the floor, looking at the mess of files and reports now scattered everywhere, he'd limped to the hallway and yelled, "someone get that cat out of here!" While Goniff may have had a look of vindication on his face, the other men only looked puzzled. 

"Uh, Warden? What cat?" Chief had asked.

The next sighting had been just as dramatic, and had the added effect of convincing any doubters that, yes, there really was a cat. Well, when said cat, firmly in pursuit of something that perhaps existed only in its own feline mind, dashed up onto and across the briefing table in the map room, scattering everything hither and yon in its wake, it made believers out of the men trying to dodge the wildly hissing creature. 

"Get that damned thing!" Garrison had yelled, and Goniff tried, getting a lovely set of scratches across his hand in the doing. None of the others had any better luck, gathering their own bleeding claw marks. Final score, Cat - 5, Goniff and the guys - 0.

 

Goniff's luck didn't get any better that day. And, as he'd explained to an irritated Garrison after the officer finished the paperwork to bail him out of Constable Miller's lockup, "didn't think she'd carry on so. She don't usually, you know."

"She doesn't usually? You mean you've done this before?" Garrison obviously was not amused, though he had the odd feeling Ben Miller just might be.

Sheepishly Goniff had explained that, well, yes, he had this little habit of wandering through Mrs. Wilson's storage shed, where she kept various odds and ends of things she bought on closings and sell-offs and such. 

"And sometimes I find something that strikes my fancy, you know. And sometimes she aint around when I find that little something. So, mostly I 'ead back over there some other time and settle up. W'en I remember. And mostly I do, really, Warden." 

How someone who'd just admitted all that could do so with such a winsome and innocent face was anyone's guess.

"You're saying you just TAKE whatever struck your fancy, not that you wait til she's there and strike a deal? And you go back to settle up. When you remember. Mostly."

Goniff had looked at him like he was being dense. "Acourse I take it with me, Warden. Don't know it'd be there if I went back. Sides, might lose the fancy for it if I wait, you know? Sometimes I go back to settle up, sometimes I change my mind and just put it back w'ere I got it. After awhile anyway. And she's always been alright with that. Might scold me some, especially if she's 'ad the door padlocked and I went in through the window, but usually she's right nice about it all. And even if I forget, once she's figured out something's gone, she'll go to 'Gaida and ask 'er to ask me about it. Not wanting to bother you with such a little matter, Lieutenant, w'at with you being so busy with the war and all." There was that winsome look again. 

"Uh huh." Garrison was sure that was a totally inadequate response to Goniff's explanation, but for the moment he was at a lack for something better.

And he was right, Ben Miller looked like he was choking back a laugh now. Garrison transferred the glare he had been directing at his resident pickpocket to the Constable.

"Alright, Ben, what else do I need to do to get him out of here?"

"Hand over the toll to Mrs. Wilson, for one. She had a buyer for that little trinket he made off with, one offering a premium price too for it being an 'oddity', she says. The sale's lost, so whether he keeps his little dainty or not, he needs to pay up. There's the fine, too, and the lunch he ate while he was here. He DOES have an appetite, doesn't he? You pay all that, he's yours, and I wish you joy of him. And I'd keep him away from Mrs. Wilson's for a while. Her rheumatism is acting up and her temper less sweet than usual. Unusual for this time of year; in fact, don't remember her ever having a spell bad enough to make her lose her sense of humor like this, though my dad says she used to have a fiery temper in her youth."

At the door of Mrs. Wilson's small cottage, Garrison offered his apologies to the elderly washer woman, along with payment for what was certainly an 'oddity'. In fact, Garrison had never seen anything quite like it, couldn't put a name to it even after he'd looked at it from every possible angle. The old woman had given him a knowing shrug and a rather sheepish smile as she'd accepted the object the Lieutenant handed her. 

"Aye, I'll admit I think it's an odd looking thing too, and I haven't any notion of what it would be used for. Bot it in an odd lot when the Henderson's place went up for auction. But the gentleman who stopped by was quite excited by it. Said it was just what he'd been looking for as a wedding present. Had the oddest look in his eye when he said it, too, so I imagine there's quite a story there somewhere."

In fact, Mrs. Wilson even gave HIM a small apology. "I'm sorry for all the fuss, Lieutenant. I know the lad means no harm and would have handed it over all nice and easy if I'd just quietly told him it was already spoken for. Always good natured, he is, you know. But for some reason, it just hit me wrong, and I lost my temper when I found him in there tucking that bit inside his shirt. You'd not think it to know me now, but I used to have a right nasty side to me, and it seems it all came back all of a sudden. Can't think what came over me. You'll tell him I'm not mad at him, won't you? Hate to have his feeling hurt," looking at the car where a dejected-looking Goniff took up the passenger side of the front seat. "And you take this little piece back out to him; you paid for it, and I doubt there'll be another one wanting to buy it. I hate to see him so down-hearted and all. And tell him I'm sorry for snapping at him like that."

Garrison just shook his head at the woman, earlier so angry, now being worried about Goniff having his feelings hurt at someone objecting to his unconventional shopping habits. "Yes, I'll tell him, Mrs. Wilson."

And he did tell him, but only after tearing a strip off the pickpocket with a lecture that was both loud AND detailed. Garrison knew the lecture was well earned; it had been well thought-out, well presented, even humbly accepted. He just didn't get the impression it was going to have any influence on his pickpocket's future behavior. It was with a sense of futility that Garrison saw Goniff toddle off to bed, pleased smile returning to his face, his eyes and fingers caressing that odd thing he'd been so anxious to own. It was, somehow, with a sense of inevitability that he saw the Englishman trip over that black blur of motion that dashed across the hall. Goniff hit the floor, that expensive 'oddity' flying out of his hands and crashing to the wall beyond, shattering into a hundred pieces.

"Well, I guess we never will find out what the damned thing really was now," Garrison said, shaking his head as he went to haul Goniff to his feet. "And where did that damned cat go??!"

 

Chief had headed out early, thinking to bag a couple of rabbits, maybe squirrels or quail. Rations had been extra thin, meat hadn't been on the table for way too long, and Garrison had agreed that, as long as he used a sling or his blade, not a gun, a little hunting wouldn't be out of line. 

Usually he would have spotted his prey, tracked and taken it down and been back to the Mansion by mid-morning. Not today, obviously. He was getting more than a little annoyed, partly with his luck, partly with himself. 

{"Dumb mistakes, clumsy mistakes. You'd think it was Goniff or Casino out here, not me."}

That first time he'd put down as him not being totally focused, though he'd thought he was; he always centered himself real good before he started out on a hunt. But that little noise off to the side had startled him, surprised an exclamation out of him that sent that fat rabbit scurrying away. 

It had been twenty minutes before he caught a glimpse of the squirrel. It didn't see him, and he had just got within range when there was a sharp crack underfoot. He could have sworn there hadn't been any dry sticks in his path, but obviously he was wrong. That snap couldn't have been anything else.

All morning long, bad luck paced along side. That fat squirrel perched in the cleft of that big oak had somehow turned into a birds nest, one that, when struck by his knife, released two furious black demons with wings that attacked him and left scratches. The perfectly dry gully hid a morass of muddy water under those dry leaves, leaving his feet soaking wet. That burst of wind coming out of nowhere, blowing the dust up into his eyes as he was preparing for one last try at a rabbit signaled the end of his hunting.

By the time he got back to the Mansion he was really starting to wonder just where his woodscraft had all disappeared to. {"Probably the same place as my manners,"} he admitted, remembering that overly curt response to Garrison's sympathetic "no luck?"

The crowning blow, as far as he was concerned, was when he took that half-sandwich and cup of almost-coffee to the library to sit and try to figure things out. He had his blade in his hand, of course; he just thought better that way. The sandwich plate and coffee cup were on the small table beside him, and when he finally put his knife aside to reach for that cheese salad sandwich, his groping hand encountered only fur. Turning his head slowly, he found himself staring at a black cat who was staring back just as intently. There was very little of the sandwich left, a smear of orange around that black-furred muzzle, and the cat hurriedly snatched what was left up into her mouth, gave a brisk shake, and turned and jumped down from the table. Chief gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the temptation to let out a few of the Cockney curses he'd learned from Goniff. Resigned to his fate, he reached for the coffee cup; somehow, the thick mat of hair floating on top just didn't come as any surprise.

"Don't know what we're doin wrong, but it don't get any better before we head out, the jeep's gonna crash on the way to the airfield, or the plane'll get hit by lightning or the chutes won't open." 

He decided the heck with it and tried a few of those Cockney curses on for size. They fit just fine.

 

Actor had been in a foul mood when they'd returned to the Mansion to find him ensconced in his favorite seat in the library, flushed and tight-jawed, but refused to discuss what had caused it. All Garrison could get out of him was a terse, "a bit of ill luck, Craig; nothing I wish to have a conversation about, if you don't mind." 

When Garrison had given a suspicious glance at the other three cons, seeing only total lack of comprehension on their faces, had raised an inquiring brow in Actor's direction, he'd gotten a quick, "no, nothing anyone here has done. As I said, just a bit of ill luck." 

He'd basically shut down then, sitting in his chair, smoking his pipe, but with his teeth clenched so tightly on the stem it was a miracle it didn't snap. 

 

Well, Actor would have loved to have someone else to blame, but that would have been rather difficult since he'd been alone in the room at the time. Except for the person on the other end of the phone, of course. 

You see, while the elegant conman much preferred the company of a lady in person, it was not always a possibility and he'd found ways to derive at least some of the pleasures in a different manner. One of those he enjoyed most required the use of a telephone, making sure to use one Casino had cleared that day of possibly being tapped. 

He had been fortunate, or so he'd thought, since this particular phone was in the library, not in Garrison's office. Even HE didn't have the nerve to settle into the officer's area for this little bit of amusement, and the library was quite comfortable.

It was an innocent source of pleasure, surely, sharing some fond remembrances with one or another of the ladies of his acquaintance, and one he felt he could safely indulge in on this evening. The others were off at the pub, even Garrison and the Sergeant Major had other places to be and weren't expected back for some time. 

He'd taken his time, running his finger over the London entries in that little black book. Sipping at the brandy from that hidden bottle, he'd pondered the possibilities. After all, not all of the ladies listed enjoyed this particular game.

Then, with a smile, he nodded, happy with his decision. "Yes, Eleanor. And we haven't spoken in some time. This should be quite pleasurable." 

He took a quick glance at the table beside him. The telephone, his glass of brandy and the bottle close at hand, notepad and pen where he'd jotted down the phone number, and that fine cotton handkerchief. His pipe and matches, but only for afterwards, of course.

He was lucky, she'd picked up the phone on the first ring with a sweet "hello?" 

Eleanor had always preferred it if he didn't introduce himself, could pretend she didn't know exactly who he was. And she preferred he didn't use her name either. She prefered 'cherie', and 'my lovely', and any other endearments he might find to use. And so, he began the game.

"Good evening, my lovely. It is so good to hear your sweet voice again. How I wish I were there to watch your beautiful lips forming your words. Ah, those lips. I remember how sweet they tasted."

He had heard the gasp through the phone, and the faint "who IS this?"

Yes, they both knew the game, both would play to the other. 

"But I am devastated, cherie, that I would be forgotten so quickly. Surely you remember our last meeting. How eagerly you took me into your warm mouth, how quickly your lovely thighs dampened with dew at my touch."

The quick intake of breath and small whimper told him that she was preparing to enjoy this every bit as much as he was. Still, there was no need to rush; he was prepared to give, and receive, a great deal of pleasure tonight.

He continued, was finding it more difficult to keep his voice steady as the tension grew. He was going to need that handkerchief soon, but wanted to be sure he brought her to pleasure first. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. 

The slam of a door downstairs shook him out of his spell, and he knew he was going to have to end that call far too abruptly for good manners, or for a leisurely denouement. Still, he didn't want to leave her, or himself, unfulfilled. He ended the call with a hurried, "and with one final thrust, I poured myself into you and you screamed my name in rapture!" Action followed words, at least to some extent, on his part anyway, and he thought he'd heard, if not a screaming of his name, at least an exclamation of strong emotion on the part of his partner in this little game. 

Then, on the other end of the phone, he heard an odd thud, and then a bevy of young voices, "Mummy?" "Mummy, what's wrong?" "Mummy, are you alright? Daddy, come quick, I think Mummy fainted!!!" And then a male voice, deep and anxious, "Geraldine? My dear, whatever has happened??"

The sight of that black cat, sitting there in the doorway, watching as Actor made a hurried mop-up, well, that was disconcerting. There was just that faint air of superior disdain in those yellow eyes that made Actor flush to think the cat might have been there the whole time. 

{"Well, at least cats can't talk; that's the only lucky part of this whole debacle."}

It was only later that a red-faced Actor looked at that notepad once again, the notepad and that little black book. 

{"Only one digit difference in the number. Just one number. How on earth did I manage to make that kind of a mistake? I wonder who I WAS talking to?? Just who is 'Geraldine'?"}. 

He would never know, and that was probably just as well for all concerned. Though, for several days, when the phone rang, Garrison noticed that the conman did have the oddest tendency to jump as if he'd been stuck with a pin.

 

Garrison had been drawn from his office by the hammering, and sighed, wondering what they were up to THIS time. He found Casino on a ladder in the Common Room, driving in the last of the nails holding that horseshoe in an upright position over the door. From the looks of it, that U-shaped piece of hardware wasn't going ANYWHERE, not without the aid of a crowbar. Maybe dynamite.

"Should I ask?" Garrison had said warily.

"Guess the damned thing lost a couple a nails in that vibration when all the planes went over last week. Didn't notice til now, but it was hanging upside down. Figured we'd better fix that. Luck all falls out, ya know, if it's not kept upright. Guess that's what's caused everything to go all cockeyed around here lately," Casino offered.

Garrison stared at the safecracker, dumbfounded by the totally serious look on the man's face. "And you think THAT'S what's been behind all the recent trouble? Casino, I never realized you were that superstitious. That doesn't make any sense."

Goniff chimed in, "told 'im that, Warden! Told 'im that ruddy 'orseshoe didn't 'ave nothing to do with it. It was that black cat w'at's been wandering around the place. Finally caught 'er this morning; Doc Riley's been talking about wanting a cat for the missus, so took it over to 'im first thing. Don't worry, though. Says she knows 'ow to keep the bad luck under control; something about w'at she feeds the ruddy thing. Things should straighten out right smart now." He was visibly proud of himself for solving the problem.

Chief snorted, "horseshoes and black cats! Somebody around here offended the spirits; that's what my grandfather would've said anyhow." He frowned, "don't know what kind, though, so wasn't sure what would appease them; probably have different kinds over here than back home. But remembered something that's supposed to be sort of a general 'sorry' and 'make nice' all rolled up in one, and I think that should work. While THEY were busy chasing cats and playing with horseshoes, I went over to the Cottage; figured Meghada would have it all in her garden. Sage and nettles and borage flowers and some other stuff, all mixed up together, put in each of the rooms we spend the most time in. Should do the trick. Don't expect we'll have much more trouble." Garrison followed Chief's tip of the head, noted the small fragrant bowl of that mixture sitting on a side table.

Actor was standing by, an amused smile on his face, enjoying a puff of rich tobacco. "Yes, Craig, they've been very busy making sure our good luck returns, or at least, that our current run of bad luck disappears."

Garrison just shook his head, "and YOU? Don't you have some magic formula to add to the mix?"

Actor raised his head in a haughty gesture. "ME? I am not the superstitious type, Craig." He had no intention of mentioning the tiny vial of holy water he'd begged from the priest in Bayside and buried in a tiny crevice under the front steps. Let the others take the credit; HE knew their run of ill fortune was at an end.

"Well, at least someone around here is showing some common sense," the officer snorted, turning to go back to his office. 

He snorted again as he sat down at his desk, "horseshoes and black cats and magic potions! And that little vial of water I saw Actor hiding under the front steps? I'd lay odds on what THAT was! I can't believe how superstitious they all are!"

His hand drifted to his pocket, that note from Meghada explaining that she had located that gypsy woman he finally remembered that he and the guys had splashed accidentally driving through the neighboring village a couple of weeks ago. He'd stopped and gone back to say he was sorry, but she'd disappeared into the shadows, shaking her fist at him, muttering dire predictions as she went. 

He'd been lucky, he knew, that the Dragon had been here and willing to search out the old woman when he'd asked her to, even though she'd given him the oddest look when he'd made the request and told her why he was asking. 

Well, it all worked out. It seems that, for a sincere apology, which Meghada had offered on their behalf, along with a sizeable remuneration, which she had ALSO provided, things should be looking up again. Well, except for the condition of his wallet which, between Goniff's exploits and replacement of Meghada's peace offering, was rather exhausted.

And up in the attic, a little sprite was feeling more than a little ashamed of herself. After all, they hadn't INTENTIONALLY hurt her feelings with that rude story about the nearsighted fairy and the marmot! They hadn't even known she was listening. And it hadn't been a marmot in the first place, but a chipmunk! And her cousin Violet hadn't been fooled by the beast for THAT long, certainly not long enough for anything THAT personal to have happened!! 

Still, they'd not have a clue, most likely, just how offensive such a story was to one of her kind. Sprinkling that teensy little bit of bad luck on their shoulders had probably been an over-reaction to what had just been some of their usual foolishness. Well, it wouldn't take any more than a touch to brush that bad luck away, and she hopped down from the rafters and headed off to take care of that little matter right away. Besides, she wanted to know what they'd been doing downstairs with all the hammering. 

"Probably something interesting; it usually is with them. And I AM glad they caught that cat and took it away! I was getting right weary of it chasing me every time I set foot downstairs! I didn't want to hurt the beastie, but it seemed to think I was a large mouse with wings! Besides, I've heard black cats are unlucky. Likely to have caused all sorts of trouble if it'd stayed on here." And nodding her head wisely at that sage thought, she headed off to see what her Sons of Adam were up to.


End file.
